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Stephen on Sunday. He says it's a course that wants
knowing/9 I _ said, helping myself to some more
tapioca pudding,

Stephen had warned me that I shouldn't be able to
stay at the Rectory for the Races, because his mother
was already "in such a muck-sweat about it" that
the topic was never touched on in her presence. So I
bicycled to Dumbridge, took the slow train which
explored Sussex on Sunday mornings, got out at a
wayside station, and then bicycled another seven
miles to the course. (The seven-mile ride saved me
from going on to Downfield and changing on to the
branch line which went to the station close by the
course.) These exertions were no hardship at all on
that dusty spring day; had it been necessary, I would
gladly have bicycled all the whole thirty miles from
Butlcy and back again. Nothing in my life had ever
appeared more imperative than that I should walk
round that "three and a half miles of fair hunting
country" and memorize each obstacle in the sequence.
I wanted to curry home in my cranium every inch
of the land over which Gockbird would, I strenuously
hoped, stride with his four legs.

In tlie meantime 1 had plenty to occupy my mind
pleasantly as 1 pedalled seriously along the leafless
lanes. 1 already knew that part of the Ringwell
country moderately well; I could identify most of the
coverts by their names, and I ruminated affectionately
on the rainy February days when I had gone round
and through them in a hot and flustered gallop with
the mud from the man in front of me flying past my
head. Eagerly I recognized the hedges and heave-
gates which I had jumped, and the ruddy faces of the
Ringwell sportsmen accompanied my meditations
in amicable clusters,